God-Touched

Prologue: Mike

In which Mike's true talent is discovered

STT-minus 3 hours till showtime. Your van pulls up in the parking lot of the Black Rooster. It’s not a particularly big club and not very attractive from the outside—it’s a square brick building with the paint proclaiming the club’s name flaking off—but the stage is all yours. Absolute Illusion’s first solo performance. You and your band begin the process of setting all the speakers and instruments up, hooking up all the wires, doing the mic tests, testing the stage lights, and warming up your fingers. Energy’s running high, everything’s set up, and no one’s arrived yet. That means it’s time for the little pre-show psych-up ritual you and your band have made into a tradition.
Describe this ritual to me.

MikeMichael looks at his bandmates, holding his Guitar out towards them all, fret-end first. “Guys… this is it. We only go up from here. No more of those Open Mic calls, just us and our songs. It’s taken a while for us to reach this level… but I’m confident we’ll rock this nation to its core! And soon the world! Instruments in, you guys!” The whole Band then put their instruments together, almost like a sports group would put their hands in for a cheer after a huge pep talk. The drummer, his sticks. The Bassist, his Bass; frets first like Michael. The Rhythm Guitarist, the same. The four Bandmates held this for a few seconds before Michael spoke again. “As we shout ourselves hoarse in our powerful Mics:” The bandmates replied “The Metal will be with us!” Michael again, “As our fingers bleed from our powerful chords:” “The Metal will be with us!” “As the thuds of the drums bang in our audiences ears:” “The Metal will be with us!” “As our music soars to the Gods themselves:” “The Metal will be with us!” The whole band then started speaking in unison. “Metal stay strong, Metal survive! Absolute Illusion, we will thrive!” The bandmates thrust their instrumental devices into the air at the word thrive, shouting in hurrah!

ST“I dig it already!” calls a man from behind the bar. He pulls out a top hat and a cane and places them on the bartop, then vaults over it all smoothly. With a flourish he dons his effects, completing his strange ensemble. He’s quite tall and thin—practically a beanpole—wearing a tailcoat over his bare chest, and pants that only come to mid-calf. Though most of him is covered in shadow due to the dim lighting in the place, you can tell his skin is the color of chocolate, accented by his bone-white grin parted in the middle by a gap between his front teeth. He spins his cane once and clicks it on the ground. “You boys are gonna liven this place up for sure!”

MikeMichael starts a bit as he observes this bar-goer. “I… well, that is… WE didn’t know anyone was here… we weren’t expecting anyone in the bar for at least another hour or so…” He looks back at the rest of the band, and they’re all shaking their heads, looks of confusion on their faces. Michael looked back to the individual. He gave him a grin as well. “We won’t just liven this place up, we’ll rock so hard the dead will headbang in their graves!” The band all played a single solitary chord together in perfect harmony.

STThe man bursts into laughter. “Is that a fact?” He steps closer, some of the shadows pulling back from his face. A pair of dark glasses conceal his eyes. “Can I interest y’all in a little pre-show libation to unwind a little and get the blood pumping? On the house, of course.”

MikeThe band are all looking rather confused now. Michael less so. More intrigued somehow. “And what exactly do you mean by a pre-show libation? Also, why are you wearing sunglasses inside, when the lights are dimmed so low?”

ST“I mean exactly fuckin’ that, kid! A little booze! Wet your whistle! Damn good shit too. Vintage.” He pauses in his approach, his smile disappearing. Deathly silence falls and—you’re not sure, you think it’s just you, but the shadows seem to grow a little. “Are you dissin’ my shades?” After an uncomfortable pause, he tosses his head back and laughs. “C’mon, let me treat you boys to the best in the bar. This is a special occasion, isn’t it?”

MikeMichael looked back at the rest of the guys, then back to the bartender. “Guess we shouldn’t say no to such a rockin offer! Let’s take 5, you guys!” He set down his guitar in its stand nearby, as did the rest of the band. They all would follow the bartender to the bar and each order themselves a drink. Michael seemed a bit uneasy… there was something about this guy… something almost sinister… maybe it was just his imagination. The rest of the Band didn’t seem to notice it, but… a shift in the lighting fixtures? The way he moved? Or just last-minute jitters? Who could say? Nothing a couple of shots of hard liquor wouldn’t fix, however. “Hardest liquor you’ve got on the shelf. Just a little pick-me-up.”

STThe bartender is a very handsome young man and well-built, which is easy to spot under his tight but quite stylish shiny violet button-up shirt. His skin is just a couple shades lighter than this mysterious fellow and he bears a purple soul patch. “El-fuckin’-Dorado for these gentlemen, Nibo!” says the top hat-bedecked fellow. “Coming right up, boss,” replies the bartender, his voice quite nasal and effeminate.

MikeMichael starts a bit, looking over the bartender some. He admired the purple soul patch he had, stroking his own absentmindedly. While he waited for his drink to be poured, he looked at the top-hat guy. “So… what’s your name? From the Bartender’s reaction, you run this place?”

STNibo barks out a laugh as he sets down glasses in front of everyone. “They’re so cute when they’re clueless!” The other man lets the comment slide. “I sure as fuckin’ hell do run this place, kid. You may have talked to Brave on the phone when you were setting up this gig, but it was my fuckin’ stamp that got you in here.” He grins once more, revealing that gap in his teeth again. “As for my name… well, I’ve got too fuckin’ many to keep track of ’em all. Most just call me Saturday.” The bartender pours the rum into the glasses.

MikeMichael seems rather taken aback by the Bartender’s comment. But he held his anger in check, ESPECIALLY in front of the owner of this club. “Saturday… huh…” He grins just a little bit, risking a smart-aleck comment. “Saturday SunShades. I’m sorry, but I had to say it!” He starts laughing along with the rest of the Band as they all take their glasses, clattering them together and speaking in unison once again: “METAL!” They then drink.

ST“Hah. Real funny, kid.” Saturday lifts his glass to them and downs the rum in one go. “So, Mikey, you got a minute? I wanna talk some serious business with you. This being your rise to stardom and all.”

MikeMichael finishes his drink, setting his glass down. “Sure.” He looks at the Band. “I’ll be back in a bit, guys. We’ve got time til the gig.” He would then follow Saturday off to wherever he would guide him.

STSaturday takes you behind the bar, through a door, past some stairs and out the back, leading to a weedy, clearly dead enclosed garden. “Look kid, I got something big to tell you. Promise me you won’t wet your fuckin’ pants, because it’s real fuckin’ mind-blowing.” He pulls out a cigar and lights it, and pulls out another one, offering it to you.

MikeMichael holds his hand up. “I don’t smoke. Drink, heavily. Smoke, not so much.” He’s rather intrigued by the news this stranger says is big. “So this something big you’ve gotta tell me… what, are you some hotshot Manager in hiding, looking out for rare talent? It’d explain the shades and the weird Saturday name…”

STAgain Saturday grins, this time around the cigar, and pockets the unlit one. He blows a smoke ring out into the night before responding. “Something like that. Except that rare talent comes from my balls, kid. See, the Baron Saturday is a smooth motherfucker. Just ask yours.” He laughs uproarously for a while, wiping away a tear from under his shades with a finger. “But in all seriousness, you, Mikey, are my son, and I’ve been fuckin’ waitin’ to tell you this. Oh, and the fact that I’m the god of the dead that you claim you’re going to waken with your tunes. But that’s beside the point.”

MikeMichael just starts kinda violently at Saturday’s comment. “What… in the actual fuck…” He blinks a couple more times. “Uhh… no, pretty sure you aren’t my pops. For one, I’m no chocolate dick. Two, my folks are a few states over. Both of them white. So I don’t know if this is-” His brain then finally registers the second part of this guy’s words. “The… god of the dead? You’ll… forgive me, if I think you need to go back to the nuthouse, the crazy shit you’re spewing.”

STSaturday tilts his head to the sky, lets out a big sigh, and pounds his cane on the pavement, sending a crack through it. Silence falls and the air grows still. “Just wait for it.” It isn’t long before rotted hands erupt from the dry ground, clawing at it as a fair number of bodies pull their way up to the surface, shuffling in a circle around Saturday and you. “See, /that’s/ what I call fuckin’ waking the dead.”

MikeMichael stares at the guy for a bit, confused as to what the cane hitting the ground was supposed to do… but then all of a sudden, there was a sound of dirt being sifted apart and he looked down to see rotting hands digging themselves up out. He jumped back away from said hand, only to see another digging upwards from where he was. He jumped out of the way of all of them, eventually jumping back right to where he started in the garden. “HOLYSHIT! WHATTHEACTUALFUCKS?!”

STSaturday takes a deep lungful of the cigar smoke and blows it out slowly while waiting for you to finish reacting. “Now do you believe me, kid?”

MikeMichael looks at the guy. “Okay… starting to believe the… SECOND part… but how the fuck do you prove that you’re my pops? There’s still the issue that I’m not a big black motherfucker.”

ST“Why would I waste valuable time that could be spent balls deep in a fine-ass woman lying to some fuckin’ white dude about him being my son and lavishing him with fuckin’ gifts an’ powers an’ shit?” Saturday shakes his head. “Kid, I’m a fuckin’ god. Use your imagination.”

MikeMichael holds his hand up in protest of his comments just at the end of his question. “Wait wait wait… hold the fuck up, there… gifts and powers and shit? The fuck do you mean? Like… I could summon Zombies and shit like you did here?”

ST“Ah, good, this is the best part. Hold on.” Saturday drops his cane into a shadow, where it disappears without seeming to fall to the ground. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out an ivory pick with tiny but elaborately detailed carvings of skeletons. The zombies’ collective empty gaze turns on it and follows it as he hands it to you. “This little fucker here is packed with a lot of power, so don’t fuckin’ lose it. I know you guitarists go through picks like a cheap whore goes through STDs so take good care of it.” He pauses. “And I got you a new guitar, too. No super-special voodoo to it, just a present from dear ol’ dad.” He reaches into the shadows and pulls out a black guitar whose smooth finish catches the dim outdoor light and whose edges gleams wickedly. The taut strings stretched from tuning peg to bridge beckon to you. “That shit’s real fuckin’ sharp so don’t go running around buck naked with it, okay?”

MikeMichael blinks at the guitar pick. “What’s so special about this?” He then sees the crown jewel. “Oh no fucking way!” He gasps as he grasps the guitar in his hands, testing the weight of it against his own guitar-wielding strength. It felt good in his hands. “Now THIS… is a gift from the Gods!” He blinks a bit and examines the guitar a bit more. “Uhh… only one problem. There’s no amp port on this beast. How the fuck do I rock out with my cock out with acoustic? That shit’s wussy shit.”

ST“That’s what the gods-be-fuckin-damned pick’s for, kid. Good way to make sure you won’t lose it, eh?” Saturday grins broadly. “Go on, play a couple of chords.” He keeps his hand out, waiting for you to take the true gift.

MikeMike looks at the guitar, then at the pick… he sighs and takes the pick. “Let’s see what this is about then…” He plays a simple Db Chord. As he does, there’s a powerful reverberation that seems to emanate from the earth itself! “Whoa! Holy shit!” He plays a few more chords, actually FEELING the music from the Earth. “Fucking a! This is some sick shit!”

STNot only does it make the earth itself sing, it makes your bones sing and the zombies moan all in unison, sending the blood rushing to your ears and electric shivers up your spine. You’re more alive now than you’ve ever been before. The beauty of it all makes your eyes sting with tears. Saturday laughs. “Yeah, see, that’s what I fuckin’ like to hear!” The door opens and a woman’s head pokes out. She’s the only white one of the quirky bunch in the bar you’ve met so far, with blond hair streaked with mauve and matching lipstick. “Dere’s a big feckin’ crowd waitin’ fer yer boy here, love.” Saturday turns to her. “Just in time too,” he replies. He turns his attention back to you. “You ready, kid? Your rise to stardom begins now.”

MikeMichael looks at his guitar, then to his new pick. Then back to Saturday. He gives a grin to him. “Before I go on stage… you gotta tell me. Your name’s not really Saturday. If you’re a God, that’s a pretty lame-ass name for a God. Tell me… what’s your real name?”

STThe woman cackles delightedly. “Dis lad’s got a mout’ on him!” she comments. Saturday tilts his chin down a little. You get the sense that he’s glaring at you. “Baron Samedi—and, by the way, Samedi’s fuckin’ French for Saturday so watch your fuckin’ self.”

MikeMike gives a dry chuckle. “Yes, sir… another point of reference. Never been to France…” Regardless, he does take his guitar and pick to the stage. There was a brief moment of the band oohing and aweing over the new guitar, asking where it came from, and if he was going to use it. However, he hushed the Band and told them he’d tell them about it later. As it stood, they had a gig to perform. And perform they did, Mike actually using his new axe and pick to display his prowess at musical aptitude.

STThe performance goes smooth as butter. Where before sweat would be pouring down your face midway through a set, you find yourself rocking out harder than ever before without even a glistening droplet plinking on the stage. Your solos echo even through the screams of the frenzied crowd. The set ends before you’re ready for it to… but as you look back at your bandmates, you can see they’re exhausted, their sweat making up for your lack. After the performance is over and the crowd dissipates, the packing begins. As you your band trudges out to the van, ready to call it a night, you see a man waiting there, wearing a black suit coat over a t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He’s got slicked-back hair which looks black in this awfully-lit parking lot. He’s carrying a little sleeping girl, her arms draped around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder. “Hey, Michael Umul, right?”

MikeMike looked at the interesting sight. “Uhh… yeah that’s me.”

STThe man shifts the sleeping girl to his left arm and offers his hand. “Alejandro Xaxalpa. Great show tonight. Otherworldly, you could say.”

MikeMike gives a small grin as he shakes the man’s hand. “What can I say? I was inspired to do my best.”

STAlejandro’s grip is firm and has a practiced professionalism about it. He returns your grin. “I could tell! It’s clear that you’re something else, and I’m interested in sponsoring you.” He reaches into his coat and hands you a business card. It’s hard to read in the light, but after some doing you can see it reads ‘AX ENTERPRISES’ and just below it is ‘Alejandro Xaxalpa CEO’. You vaguely recognize the name and logo of the company from various trucks, advertisements, and the like.

MikeMike laughs happily at that. “Wow… good things happening to me left and right! This is awesome!” He looks at the sponsor CEO. “Soooo… what, was it ‘take your daughter to work day’s today? No offense, but a Death Metal concert isn’t exactly a place for a little kid…”

STHe chuckles a little abashedly. “She wanted to go with me, to ‘listen to Daddy’s music.’ I don’t know why I agreed to it.” He clears his throat. “She was out like a light halfway through, though, so now I can tell her to wait until she’s older.” He nods to the card. “Anyway, give me a call when you’re ready to work out all the details.”

MikeMike smiled and nodded. “Definitely! Expect a call from me soon!” He then piled in the van and travelled onward back to his very humble home. He had a shitton of stuff to process first. While his bandmates poked and prodded for info on just what the hell happened, he dismissed them, saying he’d tell them about it later. When later would be, he had no clue. How do you drop shit like that on people? Oh hey. Yeah my guitar and pick are a gift from a God and that God runs a bar… not exactly a conversation that would end well for his career. So he wanted to keep that detail to himself as much as possible.